


bare my side and see my heart

by Iambic



Category: Julius Caesar - Shakespeare
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 12:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iambic/pseuds/Iambic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brutus has qualms. Cassius has reassurances. Not much changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bare my side and see my heart

He knows it's Cassius outside that door, because no one else would think to disturb him at this hour. No one else would go through with it, either; Brutus has somehow managed to command the respect and often deference of those around him, and only Cassius - passionate, familiar Cassius - would cross that boundary. All for the better, though, as Cassius is the only man who could possibly succeed in doing so.

Cassius says, entering, "You said you would sleep." Too direct; he must have some other intention than that of looking after Brutus' rest. Though Brutus' rest does need looking after - not since Caesar was first put in place to become king and emperor has he slept fully. His health has suffered for it, as Portia noticed. But Portia is dead, and Caesar too, and Cassius is not here to force the matter of sleep. It matters little. This time tomorrow, they may all be dead anyway.

"As did you, and yet here you are, awake, telling me this." Brutus does not smile. He may well have forgotten, after so long.

Cassius frowns, derailed by the argument, and then rallies and continues. "You plan for every eventuality with such care, leave no possibility forgotten. But I wonder, what of our victory?"

"Victory?" Brutus asks. This is not the direction of conversation he anticipated.

"If we are victorious tomorrow," says Cassius, smiling his conspirator's smile, as if the possibility of success is some great secret shared only between them. "What then, Brutus?"

Brutus does not reply. He looks down at his hands, laced together before him, and laces them a little tighter. So far as he knows, there is little they can do to secure victory. If fortune is fair, they may live out the day. But then will come another day, and another after that, and Rome has soldiers in great potential number. Neither Brutus nor Cassius has a great force behind them, nor the means to support one. It has come to extorting the workers of the land already, which means only further decline. And Marc Antony's star, it is clear, continues to rise.

And if they win? What of Antony, of Octavius? Brutus would not allow himself to be dragged in chains back to Rome. Would either of his opponents feel any differently? Would he be forced to sacrifice another for Rome's continued liberty? The thought sickens him, and the hope for his own survival doesn't abet the nausea, only constricts his chest and pulls at his heart. He looks up at Cassius and tries to let this show in his face, for there is no way he can bring himself to articulate this. A proper Roman ought to expect victory, to hope for it with all of his being. But despite what Cassius and their collective followers may believe, Brutus is no more the perfect Roman than dead Caesar, and quite possibly less so.

"Friend. Brother," says Cassius, and then he walks around the table to place a hand on Brutus' shoulder. "_Brutus._ Do you hope for your death in battle so?"

"Rather, I anticipate it," Brutus replies, and pulls at his hands without disentangling them. "The odds are great enough that our survival, much less success, would astound me. The gods' good will was said to shine upon Caesar, and so I cannot hope that they would smile upon us. We need fortune on our side to have even a chance."

"You assume too quickly," says Cassius, taking both Brutus' hands, still connected, with his own right hand. "Leave off worrying for once, Brutus. Think of lighter prospects. You make a sorrier pessimist than I."

Were it any other man - and in some instances, even his wife - to insinuate himself into Brutus' breathing space so bluntly, Brutus would have recoiled, might even have shouted again. He has shouted enough at Cassius. And in the end, Cassius has been constant in a way Brutus has not. "Constant as the northern star" - and it takes him a moment to remember whose words those were, and who they referenced. It seems wrong somehow to compare the two, but Caesar's self-professed virtue can more easily be ascribed to Cassius. Manipulative and cunning he may be, he has never pretended to be anything other than himself. For that, as for the rest of him, Brutus loves Cassius.

He attempts to push the corners of his mouth up into a smile, but the stiffness in his face resists such motion. Instead, he unlaces his fingers and clasps Cassius' hand in both his own. "For your sake, I will try to make light of what we are given. But I cannot do it for myself."

"You do little enough for yourself already." But Cassius is smiling again, not the smirk of the conspirator but the true smile he wore, earlier, when he proclaimed that he could not drink enough of Brutus' love. It is a smile Brutus cannot hope to match, or even return as he returns Cassius' love and respect.

"You did not come to ensure my good health," says Brutus, instead.

"I did," Cassius replies, managing to convey affront without great change in his expression. "But health of the spirit is not dependent upon slumber, and my diagnosis relies much upon your lucid responses."

"What have you determined?"

"That your sickness comes of refusing yourself health," says Cassius, much in a physician's manner, so that his words might almost be a joke. "Is it possible you attempt to avenge Caesar upon your own constitution?"

The joke comes too soon, but Brutus only looks down again and takes it literally. If Cassius did not mean it in earnest - which, to be fair, he might have - he will not push the matter. And there may be some truth to his words, for to think of a day when he might find himself enjoying life as Caesar lies dead seems blaphemous. He would not undo his actions. Caesar alive might have endangered them all. He cannot regret his choices. But he cannot condone them, either.

"I only wish I were more a man of your constitution, with constant faith in my own convictions," Brutus says. "I fear I cannot tell what is right from what is necessary, and what is necessary from what is actually done."

Cassius' hand tightens on Brutus' shoulder, and when Brutus looks up he sees genuine contrition on Cassius' face. "I can show you that," he says. "What is right is that we stand together for the sake of Rome and her continued liberty. What is necessary is that we face our fellow Romans in battle for our cause, as we do tomorrow. As for what is actually done... that alone is what we make it."

"What, then?" Brutus breathes out, not quite a sigh, and the sharp ache in his chest subsides a little. In its place he feels hollow, for Cassius' revelation scarcely satisfied his fear. "What do we make of it?" He clasps Cassius' hand a little tighter, a little more desperately, and Cassius pulls him into an awkward embrace. Their hands, pressed between them now, grow clammy. Brutus pulls one free, to wipe against his side; the other he leaves put.

Cassius says, "What you will."

It leaves Brutus with no more conviction than before. It leaves him with less hope for the battle to come. Cassius against him is wrong to trust him to lead, as are all their followers. He never should have had authority over their uprising. Brutus was given the appearance of a leader, and Cassius argues for his character, but he lacks the constitution for it. And tomorrow they all may pay for it, for no one, not even Cassius, would ever think to question him until all is lost. No one would think it necessary, for Brutus, they know, is a great and honourable man.


End file.
